The honeymoon is definitely over, alright

The reason I have been absent for a while is because I've been busy dodging bullets. Bullets with a special inscription on them: BABIES.

It seems that when you're not yet married the most frequent question that pops up in any conversation is: "So, have you met anyone yet? You're not getting any younger, you know."

Yes, I knew. But then I got lucky and I got engaged to Chris. The single most frequent question then was: "So, when are you guys getting married?"

My answer used to be: "When our children insist on it."

I thought it funny back then. WAY back then.

Now that we've been married for a while, you know exactly what annoying question is asked in EVERY single conversation I have. People from the supermarket ask me that, people at the car wash enquire about it, people at the salon where I get my hair done nose about it. The worst is visiting my brother. His wife had to quit her job when they moved out of town and now her new mission in life is to probe into people's personal lives. She thinks she's a reporter and an inquisitor when actually she's just a nosy, probing ... alien.

"When are you having kids? YOU'RE BIOLOGICAL CLOCK IS TICKING, YOU KNOW."

Yeah, I know, but I've never been a fan of squeezing. Especially squeezing in having a baby before the clock strikes ... I don't know ... old-eggie-hour and then squeezing a big baby out of my tiny, pretty little ... hole.

There are books about everything these days. How to lose weight, how to gain weight, how to be your best self, how to anything. Unfortunately I missed the one on what happens after the honeymoon. The one that tells you how quickly people can be corrupted by angel faces.

Sure Chris and I talked about what we wanted in the future: a nice house with a garden and a fence for the dogs, a dishwasher as I don't want Gollum-looking hands when I'm older, enough money to live comfortably and one day, some day a baby. But thanks to my over-eager sex-crazed siblings who both now has 2 girls each, it seems that Chris's some day and my some day have taken slightly different time stamps.

I mean, who can resist little girls looking like this:

Me, I can. Cause I know that looks can be deceiving.

Don't be fooled by the smiles or the holding-hands-thing. They can yell like sirens and scratch like angry, hungry rats. But that doesn't seem to bother Chris. He adores the one on the left and can play with her for hours. Usually he pays for it when we get home since her idea of playing involves things that boys like to do: lots of running, kicking balls, jumping over home-made obstacles and see how high she can climb a tree without breaking a limb. He can't walk for 2 days after that. I guess that's the price you pay for marrying a (three year) older man... sigh.

It's difficult cause we're two in this marriage and even though he hasn't said anything or pressured me into having a baby I know it's something that he would like in the nearby future. I just don't think that I'm ready for that kind of responsibility. I can't even keep plants alive, for crying out loud.

The jury is still out on this one, but any advice will really help.

It's that time of the year

Yep, it is indeed that time of the year for me. Birthday-time. On Thursday, this year. I was actually born on a Friday so I was the original inspiration for Jason in Friday the 13th. I'm scary like that.

I used to love my birthday. Being woken up at an ungodly hour by the sound of someone who's voice is like that of a whale mixed with a kid having nasal problems on a roller coaster, is allowed once a year. Consuming ridiculous amounts of cake without feeling that muffin-top looming is allowed once a year. Acting all surprised when your overweight aunt Mary tries to jump out from behind the bean bag, is allowed once a year and not hilarious at all.

Birthdays are a big deal in my family. Like so many other things.

The invitations: mostly verbal since my people have surpassed snail mail AND the Internet. They're that fast.

Lots of guests: you were only born once, Mom says, so you might as well take advantage of other people's kindness on that day by demanding presents since the one you got from them for Christmas, well, is now a matching set of 15. Thanks for (another) wine bottle stopper, uncle Shawn. We're just opening bottles of wine every time you come around since you insist on seeing each one of your stoppers. And watching you get ridiculously drunk at what stage you then take off your shirt and pretend you're part of the Village People while doing the Macarena. Fusion. Good times.

A sit-down meal: no finger snacks here, friends. My family firmly believe that we're not savages. And the fact that you now have your one hand free to hold your drink with sitting at the table and loading your plate with food at the same time is not an incentive at all.

The cake: you are not the baker of your own cake. Nor are you the chooser of your own cake. Never. That privilege goes to either Mother or Sister. They have a non-erotica policy. I once wanted a Playboy bunny cake, but instead ended up with something that looked like this:

And there will be no surprises this year.

This year it'll just be Chris and I. And the dogs. We'll be having the cake I chose, sipping some champagne while sitting on our veranda watching the sun go down and smile about not having to fish out cupcake wrappers from the toilet.

This year I'm turning such an insignificant age and it feels as though I'm stuck in the middle, in a liminal phase. I don't feel like spending money on being stuck. I'd save that for Chris's birthday since he's turning 30 this year. If and when I turn 30 and I'm still wrinkle-free I might consider letting the fam throw me a surprise party.

But until then:

What you can learn from relationships by growing plants and vegetables

I've never been good at gardening or growing anything. I tried growing a vegetable patch once. Instead of my vegetables turning out like this guy's, it looked a little more like this:


Needless to say, after eating one I ended up like this:



My plants died for no reason ... or so I thought. I'd water them everyday and after a week they'd just wither away. Only then my mother informs me to water them twice a week. So I buy a new plant. And water it twice a week. Meticulously. It died again. Only then my sister tells me that you have to water according to the plant and the plant's needs. Some are twice a week, some more. Some need a lot of direct sunlight, some love the shade.

Kind of like relationships.

I've had a few in my time. I've smothered them with water thinking that's what they wanted when in fact the turd was too lame to tell me that he liked little water and lots of shade. Good thing I killed THAT relationship after week 3.

And that was my main problem in relationships: the talking part. Just like plants some men would say nothing but just stare at the light thinking I was telepathic and knew that they were thinking McDonalds while I was thinking more along the lines of fine dining and dancing. But I have learned a few things along the line.

I have learned that saying to yourself this is what I want and this is what I like does not make it true, but only aggravates the feelings of self doubt and loneliness:

Brainwashing only gets you so far.

I have learned that trying too hard will not make it last any longer:

Plus it makes you feel bloated, frustrated and fat. Not sexy.

And I've learned that when you start pretending and belittling yourself to make him feel better about his little weener of a personality, it's usually time to bail. Even through the window if necessary.

Seriously, you don't have to pretend you never knew "Milan" wasn't Julius Caesar's last name anymore.

And that's how Chris and I made it. We ran through and jumped over all the obstacles relationships are riddled with, all while holding hands.  And when he went on one knee to ask my hand in marriage (I know, how cliché, but still fabulously romantic!) there was no way I'd give up that chance for happiness.

It'll be a year in April and the honeymoon phase is kinda over, but it's still good. It's better than good. It's great having someone to share your ice cream with while waiting for your order; it's wonderful walking around without any make-up on and not worrying he'll run after you trying to throw a sheet over your face from the horror of seeing your freckles and less than perfect complexion; it's pretty awesome laying in the bath and talking about his day and yours. It might be simple, but it's ... good.

If he'll hold your flowers while your busy with a pose, it's a good sign. Obedience: great start to any marriage :)

Here's looking at you, kid

Christmas sometimes makes you feel some crazy emotions. You go from one ho-ho-ho-high to an if-auntie-Mary-sings-we-wish-you-a-"Mary"-Christmas-one-more-time-I-will-stuff-her-mary-ass-in-the-chimney-low. Maybe it's the pent-up frustration from getting soap-on-a-rope four years in a row from your mother-in-law or maybe it's cause Christmas just isn't the same this year.

Chris's gran, Liliana, passed away on the 13th of November. She was the closest thing to a grandmother I ever knew since all my grandparents passed away either before I was born or before my 7th birthday. From the day we met we clicked like Turner and Hooch, me being Hooch since I had so much to learn from her.


Gran Liliana wasn't your average grandmother. She didn't knit bulky sweaters with characters on them as she knew not to waste her precious time and not to put us through the whole pretend-we-love-it-and-give-it-to-the-maid-the-next-day-routine. She didn't bake cookies because she was realistic enough to not want us die before her. She DID have an amazing sense of humour; I suppose being 88 you've seen enough to know that it's better to laugh about it than letting everyone see your ugly-cry face.


I remember taking her to the optometrist a few months ago to get her eyes tested. As we were about to leave, the optometrist shook Gran L's hand and said: "See you again in six months."

Gran L replied with her heavy Italian mobster accent: "I bloody hope not!"


She came to South Africa after WWII with Chris's grandfather. He met her in Italy and fell in love instantly with this short, witty and strong willed lady. At first she didn't like Africa all that much since we had none of the style the Italians possessed (not much has changed) and she couldn't understand a word of Afrikaans. She still couldn't speak the language until the day she died; she stayed stubbornly true to her roots.

Being in Italy during the war Gran L had the most amazing stories to tell about how the Germans bombed their home and their villa and how they had to fight for survival. I wish we had more time for me to write them down. It would've been a great Christamas gift.

I miss her light little chuckle that sounded like happy girls playing in a field; I miss her calling me my worst days without her even knowing that I was sitting on the floor feeling pretty sorry for myself; I miss her slow walk and holding her hand; I miss her blue eyes and complaints about her back; I miss her little old person smell and clinging of fine jewellery; and I know I promised her I wouldn't cry when she's gone, but she never told me it would be this hard. I just miss her so much.

Here's to you, Gran Liliana; I hope you keep them on their toes upstairs. Rest in Peace.

The prodigal lady returns

It's true: the bitch is back :)

And before I go any further I have to apologise for the sudden departure. If my mother knew about my rude manners ... wait ... she does. How little has changed.

But a few things HAVE changed. I moved, I gained weight, I quit my old job, I learned all about peace making, lost a few friends along the way and I learned how much I really despise cars without air conditioning.

And I got married. To the love of my life. Freakin' finally. I thought I'd always be the bridesmaid and never the bride; there were so many bridesmaid dresses in my spare bedroom closet that I started wearing them to work at one stage. Let's just call it my eigties desperate fashion mistakes. The eighties are making a comeback any way.

This is a short post just to touch base; I hope I still have some old friends left wanting to read my reflections on, well, me and of course some other things I have experienced this past year as well as things to come. I've started reading posts again of some of the kids who are still on the block and think it's going to take me, well, 500 years to catch up. I can't wait :)

It's good to be back.

Our little sunshines

This joke pretty much sums up what my one godchild slash niece, Elske or just plain Elly, is like:

A little boy got on the bus, sat next to a man reading a book, and noticed he had his collar on backwards. The little boy asked why he wore his collar backwards.
The man, who was a priest, said, 'I am a Father.'
The little boy replied, 'My Daddy doesn't wear his collar like that.'
The priest looked up from his book and answered: ''I am the Father of many.'
The boy said: ''My Dad has 4 boys, 4 girls and two grandchildren and he doesn't wear his collar that way!'

The priest, getting impatient, said: 'I am the Father of hundreds,' and went back to reading his book. The little boy sat quietly thinking for a while, then leaned over and said: "Maybe you should wear a condom and put your pants on backwards instead of your collar."

My niece, E, is turning 5 this December and I wish every day that she would never grow up, kind of like Peter Pan but without the package to worry about when wearing tights. If you want an honest opinion, ask a four year old. You might not always like what you hear (yes, I know I should never have bought those white pants in the first place, hippo hips), but it's never meant in a vindictive way:

"It's nice hugging you, Ladytruth; you're soft like a marshmallow."

I might be a curvy marshmallow, but at least I get the hugs and you don't anorexic aunt Mary.

E doesn't mind if you play with her hair and whatever she has in her lunch box, you can be sure to at least get half of it. Plus she knows where Mother (who looks after her during the day until my sister picks her up after work) keeps the cookie stash. Bonus. She's like a puppy: always happy to see me, but without the licking. More sanitary.

I know, however, that as soon as she comes home requesting a Hannah Montana backpack which looks just like the other girls' at school, it's over. The corruption has started and it'll be good bye butterfly kisses.

I know this because it happened to my six year old niece, N; my brother's little angel/devil when no one's looking. My mom and I blame the kids at school, but we know that's just silly. We're just sad about our eldest Peter Pan exchanging her green tights for a pink tutu. And Hannah Montana backpack.

We can't keep them sheltered under the blanket of protection and love and affection all the time. They need to experience the world for themselves, they need to explore and learn and yes, there will be times when they'll cry, but we'll be there with the Kleenex factory right behind us. We'll be there when Jean-Michael pushes them off the swing and run away leaving them alone in the sand; we'll be there when they ride their bikes with the pink and blue ribbons without the safety wheels for the first time; we'll be there when they blushingly admit they like the blond boy who draws pretty pictures. We'll be there.


I love my nieces slash godchildren. But sometimes it's nice giving them back to their parents when the day's over.

N (on the right): Man, my party blows.
E (stuffing her face on the left): At least the food's good.

E rocking the Minnie Mouse ears.

This post was inspired after reading about otherworldlyone's beautiful little Hannah

Sing, sing a song

Things have been going well on the dating front so far. It's nice having someone hold your hand while you wait in line for your take out order to be called. It's nice having someone run your bath water and then take your dogs for a walk while you relax in a cloud of peaceful bubble bath. My phone is the popular cell in town vibrating more than some other equipment in my drawer. And when Mom looks at me, all she does is smile. Happy day.

But I'm new to all the couple lingo and behaviour. Whenever we go to a BBQ with friends and their girlfriends I now have to help the girls make salads and listen to them complain about being with their boyfriends for seven minutes and not having a ring on the finger yet. Thanks for nothing, Beyoncé ; instead of putting a ring on it why don't you just put a sock in it?

Chris just smiled when I told him about the crazies and said I'm more than welcome to hang with the guys around the fire, drinking beer and talking about football. I could do that. The closest I came to chopping an onion was when I leaned forward to look at Gordon Ramsey's nails while he did it on the television.

And all the questions are just killing me.

"So you guys have a favorite restaurant with a favorite table? And you always get served by your favorite waiter? Isn't it just the best walking into a place and getting recognised by the staff?"

Yes, almost like jail I presume.

"What about your names for each other? I call Steven 'Wonderboy'. Get it? Steven? Stevie Wonder?"

I'm sure 'Wonderboy' wishes he had the power to become deaf and blind. Maybe that would scare you away.

And my favorite:

"What is your song?"

When you don't have an answer to this question, they look at you as though you're at a comic convention and failed to identify Logan as Wolverine. It's like sacrilege.

The problem is that Chris and I have very different taste when it comes to music. When you browse through the Cds in his car you'll find Nirvana, Foo Fighters, RHCP and Pearl Jam. When you shuffle through my iPod you'll be listening to a mixture of Alanis Morissette, The Killers, One Republic, The Frames and Elisa.

Songs aren't just songs to me. Their like friends. The words bring you comfort when you need it most laying on your bed crying as though the world is going to end right that second; sometimes they make you feel happy and crazy and lifts the mood in the room to blazing hot temperatures. They inspire you, they calm you, they speak the words you sometimes cannot find yourself.

When I hear a certain song or two my whole body turns into one big goose bump. Like my first car accident. Fergie's Big girls don't cry was playing when the guy hit me WHAM! on the passenger side skipping the stop sign one Tuesday morning. It's like I told Dan: there wasn't much crying going on. I think the Everybody was kung-fu fighting would've been more appropriate as I haven't seen that much fist pumping since the political riots in the 80's.

Needless to say we still don't have a song. But then again: you're also not suppose to burp or fart or curse in front of each other in the first week of dating so maybe we're doing things differently than the norm. This way life is a little more interesting.

The apple is finally ripe

The first time we met he looked at me and said in his yet to be manly voice:

"Hi, I'm Chris. Pleased to meet you."

His name could've been Dick; I was just so happy to see a friendly face that could speak. We were 14 and just started high school. Add to the fact that my family had recently moved to this town and you have a recipe for desperately seeking acceptance and fitting in. Isn't that what all 14 year olds want? To be part of the group. I was new and didn't fit in. I didn't belong anywhere. Except with Chris.

He didn't mind my unflattering uniform, my awkward movements to hide my boobs from drooling boys (I didn't know any better back then), my love for all feminist and strong female writers while we both shared a hatred for our pimpled faces. He quit playing rugby and football during breaks with the boys to sit with me in the shade of the oak tree and share sandwiches. He'd eat the one half of my peanut butter and syrup and I his tuna and onion. After a while we discovered the onion wasn't such a good call as one can only hold a fart for so long.

Year after year we would hold our breath hoping to be in the same class again and was never disappointed. Year after year we'd find a way to sit next to each other; ways that often included bribing others with lunch money. We could've been brilliant politicians.

I would cry on his shoulder when a crush didn't want to return the courtesy and he'd make me feel better by threatening to rearrange the boy's face. Whenever the girl who was the 'love of his life' didn't return the favor, I'd comfort him with bad impressions of Girls just wanna have fun (replacing the girls with boys) by Cyndi Lauper and I wanna rock and roll all night by Kiss. He preferred the latter. I'm not sure why.

And now it feels like we have come full circle. It had to be now and not last week or last month or last year. The time wasn't right. We weren't right.

Our first official date was on Friday night. It felt strange to dress up for my best friend, but Mary hasn't claimed her little lamb yet and it went rabid when he gave me a lingering kiss at the door. Our hands found each other like the ocean finds the beach and it felt ... good.

At least there was no struggle finding appropriate subjects to talk about during supper and my usual I just have to go powder my nose excuse while I sat in the bathroom for about eleven minutes reading blogs was laid to rest for the night.

I think this was the first successful date Mom hasn't sent me on.

Forget about the Oscars, Emmy and Grammy Awards: it's the Truthy's today.

Award ceremonies happen every once in a while here at happily AFTER ever. And when it does, I like to go big. I've been the recipient of a few rewards as of late and what better reason for handing these lovelies out than it being the middle of the week and people needing a bit of a kick to get through the day.

Buckle up, here we go.

AlphaButtonpusher and Otherworldlyone proved that great minds really do think alike when both gave me this interesting and fun award. If you need a quick pick-me-up these girls are the perfect medicine. Different topics and styles of writing, both addictive in their own unique way.

The rules for this award are as follow:

1. Answer the questions below using only one word
2. Thank the blogger who gave it to you
3. Pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers

Without further ado:

1. Where is your cell phone? Close

2. Your hair? Blond

3. Your mother? Confidant

4. Your father? Difficult

5. Your favorite food? Mom's macaroni and cheese (you try saying that in one word, okay!)

6. Your dream last night? Tiring

7. Your favorite drink? JackD

8. Your dream/goal? Published

9. What room are you in? Bedroom

10. Your hobby? High maintenance (it takes time to perfect and yes, I'm cheating. Again.)

11. Your fear? Dark

12. Where do you want to be in six years? Earth

13. Where were you last night? Dreams

14. Something that you aren't? Rich

15. Muffins? Heart

16. Wish list item? Worldpeace ;)

17. Where did you grow up? House

18. Last thing you did? Bath

19. What are you wearing? PJ

20. Your TV? Big

21. Your pets? Priceless

22. Friends? Love

23. Your life? Alright

24. Your mood? Stable

25. Missing someone? Monique

26. Vehicle? Quasimodo

27. Something you're not wearing? Make-up

28. Your favorite store? All

29. Your favorite color? Pink

30. When was the last time you laughed? Morning

31. Last time you cried? Saturday

32. Your best friend? Forever

33. One place that I go to over and over? Kitchen

34. One person who emails me regularly? Frenchie

35. Favorite place to eat? Mom's

I'd like to give this award to:

Hannah Miet

JennyMac

O-Zone

Constructive Attitude

Politics of Love Chick

Staceyjwarner

__________________________________

The next award is from f8hasit. This gorgeous lady is fierce, brave and funny. Being a single mother doesn't stop her from living an amazing life and reading about her experiences saves me many trips to the library in search of interesting material

The award is to 'honor those who write from the heart'. That in itself is quite a compliment. I know many of you have this award already, but for those of us who haven't received this one yet the rules state that I should tell you 10 things about myself you don't already know and then pass it on to 10 bloggers of note.

1. When I was seven I almost drowned.

2. I always take a bath or shower with the bathroom door open.

3. Growing up I read all my brother's love letters that were locked away in a drawer and kept my mom informed on what was happening in that department because teenage boys can be so secretive. I was a lock picker extraordinaire.

4. I don't wear any jewelry other than earrings and my watch.

5. I grow orchids in my study. It's the easiest plant I have ever grown as I water it once every ten days and just watch it blossom into gorgeous pieces of art. Yes, I am aware of the fact that there's a granny hidden beneath these voluptuous layers of skin.

6. I only have black and pink shoes in my closet.

7. Whenever I'm nervous or bored I chew my pinky nails.

8. I have never been away from home for more than three weeks.

9. My tonsils had to be taken out when I was 20. It felt like there was a dragon trapped in my throat for five days. Great diet, though.

10. Roses are overrated. My favorite flowers are daisies.

The 10 recipients of the Honest Scrap award (and if you already have this one, just bow graciously and put it on your mantelpiece twice) are:

Jenno

Pearl

Mega Ramblings

josefine

Tudor City Girl

Surge

Megs 7827

MilesPerHour

9uy

the japing ape

_______________________________________

Josefine tagged me in a meme the other day stating the following: create 5 categories each containing 5 favorite items of said category but without necessarily being listed in any particular order. Then tag 5 people to do the same.

Confusing? Nah, just hop over to her blog and her humor and great outlook on life will cure any of those thoughts.

I decided to combine the Honest Scrap Award and this meme because I'm lazy and I know you are ADD and can't sit still for more than four minutes and thirty five seconds. That means I listed my ten favorite random things already and now for the rest:

5 favorite items I can't go without:
1. socks
2. contact lenses
3. fridge
4. hair dryer
5. petrol (these boots definitely weren't made for walking considering their price tag)


5 favorite characters in a television series:
1. Tony Sopprano (The Soppranos)
2. Lorelai Gilmore (Gilmore Girls)
3. Dean Winchester (Supernatural)
4. Castle (Castle)
5. Izzy Stevens (Grey's Anatomy)

5 things I will not likely be caught doing (this is a little variation on the favorite theme):
1. picking my nose in public (social status killer)
2. going to a Jonas Brothers concert
3. wearing a Man Utd shirt
4. eating avocado
5. having a drink right out of the bottle. One word: syphilis-of-the-mouth.

The 5 people who I'd like to do the 5 favorite things meme are:

Rebecca

Sami

Mariann Simms

Sharon

Ed

___________________________________________

The next award is from my favorite boys Matthew and Dan. Matthew recently moved-blog, but the writing is still brilliant and I'm still envious. You'll never be able to read Dan's blog without some kind of smile and don't be surprised when you find yourself unable to stay away from his archives. Both these men's brains should be preserved and studied.


And the award goes to:

AlpHaButtonpusher

One Sassy Girl

rubbish

Mo Stoneskin

Kasabiangirl

Rachel

Dini

Love to quilt

Monica Holtsclaw

Nichegallery

pdcole

dave

Surge

scott

project savior

Will

Turdor City Girl

cfoxes

critty critty bang bang

Jenno

Lace

Kaitlyn

Jeff

why so serious

Madame DeFarge

expateek

Mimi

The pale observer (Holli)

j-face

Epicuros

omchelsea

andy

matt and olivia

plainolebob

Carmelo

King of New York Hacks

Her side

Deepika

Magdalena

Loveandbooze

koe whitton williams

I was in a giving mood.

__________________________________________________

Kasabiangirl made my day with this great award. Just reading or hearing someone say they like your blog makes you feel kind of worthy and wanted. I hope the following recipients will feel the same way:

Jeve (John and Steve are having a baby)

Dan

Jonas

erin

Trinity

The Caped Tirader!

Missy

Sashindoubutsu

__________________________________________

AlpHaButtonpusher gave me this wonderfully French award which I really love. Doesn't everything just sound better in French? Passing this on to:

Otherworldlyone

Eric

Advice and Humor from Mr. C

The Peach Tart

Proud Maisie

f8hasit

Judearoo

Sally-Sal

Meditations in an Emergency

Tennyson

Organic Meatbag

Lola Lakely

Matthew

_____________________________________________

There you go. Give yourself a big round of applause; I would, but I can't feel my fingers anymore. Enjoy these awards and remember to spread the love.

There is a lamb in my chest. Is that normal?

Date #4 happened on Friday evening, but it was over before you could say 'quickie'. The gentleman insisted we go to a club for our little rendezvous, but didn't count on Chris being there as well. The two of them were about as pleased to meet each other as a Liverpool and a Chelsea supporter were at passing each other in the street. Without the spitting, of course. But there was a stun gun.

And a walkie talkie. I bloody kid you not. It looked like a brick hanging from his belt and it did that screeching noise ever so often.

I felt like I was in a postmodern war movie gone wrong with the club as backdrop. I even considered asking the DJ to 'pump up the volume, dude' as people were starting to look at us funny. There is the reputation to think of, being single and all.

The reason for the gun and back to the future communication's device was the lad's occupation. He's a cop. Luckily he couldn't stay long as he was on call and I don't know who breathed a louder sigh of relief between Chris and I. Robocop hopped on his bicycle (budget cuts, he said) and sped off into the night to fight felons. That was the first time I was actually grateful for living in the Country of Crime.



We didn't stay long after Robocop left to save the world on a bicycle as we had to get up early the next morning for the arts festival. I've been dragging him to this festival for the past five years now because he's the only person who just can't say no to me and the torture of culture.


We watched this terribly sad play about a lady in her fifties realising how life has passed her by while she was busy raising kids and cooking dinner for an ungrateful husband every evening for 35 years. It reminded me so much of someone I know very well and I couldn't help but cry a little. I felt Chris's hand slip into mine. And it felt right.



He drove me home that evening like he always does, but somehow something changed. We changed. He's not the skinny boy with the pimples anymore and I'm not the girl with the long hair and glasses anymore. For the first time we didn't feel the need to talk so much; we just sat there and enjoyed the quiet and the presence of this new and unfamiliar feeling.



The last time I felt this way, it ended badly. My heart felt as though it was torn from my chest and trampled on by a wildebeest stampede similar to the one in The Lion King. The urge to yell Mufasa was present too at the time. That day I thought I had lost something that would never be mine again; my innocence, my faith in people with weeners and that crazy little thing called love.



When Chris said goodbye, he gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. I haven't felt a more affectionate, caring, tender kiss quite like that one and Mary's galloping little lamb found its way into my chest. But I quickly pulled its little leash as Chris broke up with that girlfriend about two weeks ago. It had nothing to do with the talk I had with her and the promise of a foot so far up her ass that she'll have athlete's throat for the rest of her life if she didn't stop cheating on him. After all, I do know the prime spot for the best athlete's foot in the country: a student hostel.


I've fallen behind on fulfilling my meme duties and acknowledging as well as handing out some lovely awards from equally lovely bloggers. This will be done on Wednesday, if not tomorrow. Until then I'm off to write an official report on date #4 to Mom. In honor of Robocop and his amazingly big walkie talkie.

A memory of a lost friend and snow in sunny South Africa?

She pushes against the door and it swings open slowly, silently, predictably. The quietly cold smell inside is how she had imagined it would be and she tries to brush off the feeling of turning around and running away with a shrug.


The lady at the reception desk personifies the feeling of the room with her tired and outdated attitude as she hands over a clipboard with paper work. It is quite a list for such a short stay, she thinks by herself while she completes the forms robot-like.


She has a burning urge to wash her hands, but doesn't want to leave her seat. Maybe, if she sits here quietly she'll go unnoticed and this day will pass like the one before and the one before that. Maybe then she'll just disappear as each hour follows the next until eternity. She wants to stay in this chair.


A hand touches her shoulder. She looks up. The lady in the blue scrubs has an expressionless face, but she has amazing green eyes. Like the mieliefields back home on the farm. There is a flash of impatience from the lady and she gets up slowly. This is really going to happen. If only she wasn't so alone. After this day in this hour, this minute she will never be the same again. They say there is always the feeling of something missing. She'll probably get used to it; what could be worse than the feeling of not being loved in return anyway?


"Everything went well. Just take this prescription and if you feel any discomfort or sudden bleeding come back immediately."


That's all there is to it, really. A pill for sorrow, a pill for heartache, a pill for emptiness. If all these pills were combined, would they take away all life's pain for good? Science might be the answer to all life's miseries, she smiles wryly as she thinks of him.


The water tastes bitter; she imagined it differently and it could have been. If only she wasn't so alone.

My front yard looking like an ice rink

Moving on to other things. Snow in September in South Africa? Marvellous, some of you might say. It's not snow, but hail and it's not marvellous, it's bloody awful! Never again will I be singing I'm dreaming of a white Christmas whilst stirring a pot of fudge whilst sweating like an overweight hippo in the desert. This side of the planet is known for its blazing sun and beautiful beaches which usually means pleasant weather. This was anything but pleasant.

Looks like a cotton wool factory launched its opening in my backyard

My once beautiful spring garden now looks like the battlefield of an angry golfer using hail as a cheap substitute for golf balls and I was not amused by the fact that His Royal Demanding and Her Comfortable Highness refused to walk on what looks like Frosty's diarrhea, let alone get to their business which means I had to use a tray as a kind of shovel to clear a patch of grass in the middle of the night.

Her Royal Highness: high on sleep and comfort

Does he LOOK amused to you?

At least that saves me a trip to a winter wonderland somewhere abroad in the future. Can we get three hurrays for money saving tips, Mother Nature style.

Can you hear the weddingbells?

If you do, you probably suffer from a concussion and have to go to the emergency room immediately.

I went on my third compulsory-by-mother date on Friday evening. And although I kinda feel like an old, desperate cow being auctioned off to the first and most equally desperate bidder, I still see it as an occasion to introduce this side of the world to Fabulousity by Fashion.

Now men don't usually notice details. When they open the grocery cupboard all they see are shelves with items that will eventually find their way to their rumbling stomach and preferably not prepared by themselves, but and equally rumbling female.

When women open the grocery cupboard, we turn into those scanners at a till: we spot all. We even notice spices that are arranged in alphabetical order and our hands become like the tongue of a frog that has spotted a delicious fly: snatch and grab. Quick. Simple. Easy.

This is usually the reason for men saying:

"You look nice"

or if they're really daring:

"That dress brings out the color of your eyes."

Really? I must be having a serious case of pink eyes then and will join you with the concussion in the emergency room stat.

That's why I was so surprised when Date #3 got up, took my hand and said:

"A woman who can wear those Louis Vuitton shoes without it wearing her deserves a standing ovation."

Right there and then I knew this evening would be as unforgettable as the Madonna and Britney kiss. Just in a PG way.

Clint and I hit if off from the word "Chanel" and it felt like we'd been friends since our womb-days. We even dared karaoke and got a bit carried away with Time of my life by doing that last dance from Dirty Dancing as an ode to Patrick Swayze (whom we both loved and adored).

Except for that last lift. Please, that would just be social suicide.

I suspected Clint was gay from the start and he admitted and embraced that fact straight away. We talked about how his parents were in total denial of this. Being from a strict Protestant Afrikaans family (they even have the farm to go with the family history) it's not hard to believe that his parents would turn a blind eye to the fact that their son would much rather be out on a Friday night with his sweet and understanding partner of eight years than singing the duet of My endless love with an equally frustrated new lady friend.

When I asked him why he doesn't just tell them the truth, he said with a far off look:

"I can't hurt them like that. They are proud people; proud to the extent of cutting their right arm off if it were to go against what they believe. They have been so good to me and telling them would break their hearts. I simply don't have the courage yet."

Just to make sure Clint was really gay and not just faking it like this one guy I knew that would always come to our hostel pretending to be gay just so he could sneak a peak of our naked bums via the keyhole of the bathroom door, I asked Clint when we got back from the stage and sat down at our table:

"Would you like to touch my boobs?"

He smiled, took a sip of his drink and said:

"If I had any desire to fondle boobs, I'd pinch my own or Shane's (the sweet, understanding partner of eight years). But if it'll make you feel better, I'll grab your ass when we go sing All the single ladies."

He truly knows the way to a woman's self esteem.

Go shawty, it's your birfday

Dear Dad

Happy 65th birthday today. You don't look a day older than the first time I saw you forty years ago. I remember that moment quite distinctly. I was testing my amazing lung capacity when I saw the nun who delivered me, but when you held me in your arms for the very first time and I saw that tear run down your cheek in slow motion I knew we'd be alright.

You were the one who taught me the wonder of great Afrikaans poetry at the tender age of seven when you recited Vergewe en vergeet (forgive and forget) by Totius from a collection of poems with yellow, tired pages. My friends were busy with reading four word sentences while I was being introduced to a world of literature that still amazes me to this day. Thanks to you I had bragging rights since I was a natural blond.

I would like to thank you for building a pool at our old house. Two of my best childhood memories were made in that pool and no, you perverts, I was an innocent child back then who's main concern was staying up to watch Rescue 911.

The one memory involved a boy (don't look so shocked) three years older than me. Our parents were friends and would visit each other every weekend. When you are 12 and a boy is 15, he is a god. Usually when boys go to high school they start thinking that themselves, but not this one. We'd go swimming in our pool on a Sunday evening with the stars being our only light and he'd talk to me like my opinion actually mattered. Love is hard, okay, and puppy love even more so. I always punched him (you hurt the ones you love) and the one time I even winded him. He tried to brush it off, but I think he was just trying to be macho and maintain the godly-composure. He was my first love and I would always remember the way he made me feel. If it wasn't for that pool, Dad, I would never have had those incredible moments with that boy.

Thank you for always singing so loud in church that even the deaf lady three rows in front of us turned her head. This taught me that you should do what you love no matter what other people might think of it. And thank you for supporting me when I went to varsity and studied literature when everyone else played judge Judy; thank you for paying everything off so I could start my life debt free. I have never taken you working from 5am to 10pm for granted when I see how my friends struggle. That is the greatest gift you have ever given me.

Thank you for always giving my brother a crack when he teased me and said I was adopted. If there were another person with a temper like ours walking around, the world would be a dangerous place, you proclaimed. We don't have tempers, Dad, we just know what we want.

And now, on your 65th birthday, you should look back upon your life with a smile because you've been doing pretty good so far. I hope the next 65 will exceed all your expectations and that we'd be there to share every step with you. Besides, you need some kind of chaos in your life to keep things interesting, right?

Your grateful and loving daughter.

Tea for two?

So we didn't have tea. The second date and I, but at least this time I could order a Screaming Multiple Orgasm without having to go to confession afterwards.

The date wore a suit to our, well, date. Now I only know two kinds of men who wear suits to work: creepy funeral parlour people and male prostitutes.

Of course he was neither. My mother organised him for me after all and I doubt she would let a technical detail like what the candidate does for a living slip by her prude and conservative radar. If my mother's radar could be compared to anything, let's just say the Titanic would never have sunk on her sharp watch.

The date was an attorney. He was, unfortunately, not any kind of attorney. He was a divorce attorney. I had to smile at the irony of this whole situation.

Every time he said 'marriage' I felt obligated to boo! like the crowd at the MTV awards with the mere mention of ol' Kanye's name.

He's 30, never been married (BIG surprise) and wants someone he could grow old with. That is just code for fix-the-holes-in-my-socks-and-while-you're-up-pass-me-the-remote-because-the-game-is-starting-soon.

I might have paid more attention to his sincere attempts at making a real connection if I didn't have hiccups. As in THE hiccups. I had been running around all day and breakfast came and gone like Elizabeth Taylor's first marriage. So did lunch. When I don't eat all day, something happens with my insides and I start getting these crazy hiccups. Let's just say it wasn't the ideal way to start a date.

You try having a serious conversation about your work, life and where you see yourself in ten years (the normal dating material) while the woman sitting across from you croaks every nine seconds like there's a frog in her body the size of King Kong judging by the sound of the hiccup. It went something like this:

Eli Stone (that's the only decent, nice attorney I know):

"I've met many women in my line of work. Bitter, hard, sometimes insane women, but none like yo -"

Ladytruth: "CROAK!!!!"

(whilst smiling sweetly and concentrating on not spitting out her drink. Too much humiliation can't be good for the brain.)

Eli Stone: (a little frown appears, but still smiling as though he's a first grade teacher looking at a freaky kid with six pony tails on her head and a missing tooth)

Ladytruth: (trying to save the situation and her dignity)

"You know, I've never met a divorce attorney before. I bet you've never be screwed CROAK!!!"

Eli Stone (the little frown is upgraded to big brother Frown like the principal looking irritated with the girl who punched a boy for bullying her friend because he has nerdy glasses and freckles)

"Are you sure you're alright? Shouldn't I scare you or something to make them stop?"

Not even IT could scare the hiccups away at that stage. Not even the thought of me spanking his funky monkey could make the hiccups go away. I'd probably have a huge croak and end up phoning his parents from the emergency room thanks to a 'freaky accident'. Damn hiccups.

Needless to say, we didn't have dessert.

On our way home, Chris just smiled when I complained about the disaster that was the date.

"That bad, huh?" he asked and I could only nod with utter and great disappointment. Eli Stone had a really cute bum.

Then again, he is a divorce attorney and if we were to get married he might just go all crazy on me one day with:

"Go to the kitchen and cook me some supper, woman, or I'll sue you and take half of your closet AND the dogs,"

and then I might just have to kill him to get rid of those silly demands.

I guess all that's left to say is:

NEXT!